


Opening Doors

by avani



Category: Sliding Doors (1998)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 21:33:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9031844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avani/pseuds/avani
Summary: "When one door closes, another opens; but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us." -- Alexander Graham Bell.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SingleWhiteUnicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SingleWhiteUnicorn/gifts).



"I'm James," he blurts out to this marvelous, Monty-Python quoting mystery before he can think better of it, "I'm divorced. Actually I'm separated but I've gone and asked my wife to pretend we're still together for my mum's sake like the daft git I am. Are there any other overly personal details of my life I need to share with you, or might I be excused to throw myself down an empty elevator shaft and put an end to my mortification?" 

The woman in the elevator doesn't say anything, even to his humiliating admission clearly brought on by the early stages of brain fever, or, with any luck, something equally fatal before he makes more of an idiot of himself. She just stares blankly at the closed elevator doors, utterly silent, as though she's just been hit by a -- _God_ , no. James decides this conversation requires advanced resuscitation. 

"It's a nice earring," he offers. 

He despairs of any response until: "It was a gift from my boyfriend," she says, tone detached, gaze fixed ahead. "For our anniversary." 

Well. James wasn't born yesterday, thank you very much. He is aware what the invocation of the boyfriend means, at least from a pretty woman he's obviously bothering with his curiosity. As always he is ashamed of himself for his poor manners. "He's got nice taste, then," he says and looks politely away, and that would be that, until she speaks again. 

"You might have left it on the floor," and her voice is so tight with repressed anger that he turns back to watch her, fascinated. A prelude to a murder, right before his eyes. 

"Bit hard on your boyfriend--" 

"Ex--" 

"Right, your ex-boyfriend. I'm sure he can't be that bad a bloke, can he?" 

The woman turns to look him in the eye for the first time. "He let me support him for years, cheated on me with _his_ ex for months, and didn't have the balls to tell me until darling Lydia decided to tell us both she was pregnant. Also, his coital soundtrack of choice features Elton John." 

James winces. "Ooh, that'll do it. Sir Elton's unforgivable. I hope you gave him hell for it." 

Surprise and what could have been the very beginning of a smile cross her face in rapid succession and just as quickly are gone, leaving that icy mask once more. "I did," she says, not a little smugly. 

Of course the elevator doors slide open just at the moment, and James, who five minutes ago was wondering if he didn't have time to buy himself a sandwich at the hospital cafe and find a phone to ring Claudia, instead finds himself following his mystery woman across the lobby. 

"I never caught your name," he says by way of explanation when she raises an eyebrow at him, and when her expression only grows more sardonic, goes on, "by which I mean you never told me. And naturally you've no reason to, do you, I could be a total madman who lurks in hospital elevators to regale innocent women with the story of his life, and pick up their discarded jewelry, and badger them incessantly for their name like some sort of mannerless hoodlum--" 

"Helen. It's Helen Quilley." 

He breathes again. "See? That always works. The Hammerton method, I call it." 

She's half-laughing again. "Does it?" 

"Oh, yeah. Besides. Couldn't let a fellow Monty Python fan get away, could I now?" 

Her face goes solemn once more. "James--" 

"That didn't come out right. Do you need a lift?" 

"I don't--" She edges her body away, and why shouldn't she? She has no reason to trust him. His insides twist with guilt. 

James lets out a frustrated sigh. "Helen, I swear to you, at some point I will say something to you that doesn't leave me sounding like the Mad Axe-Man of Chelsea and Westminster. I've just got to drive back to work and if you need it, you can catch a ride with me." He tilts his head to the bag she has with her. "Looks like you've been here a while. If you have someone coming for you -- hell, if you'd rather walk --that's absolutely fine." When she doesn't say anything he steps back. "Take care then, Helen. All the best for a speedy recovery." 

She watches him begin to walk away and then bites her lip, coming to a sudden decision. “Yes, please,” she says. “I would like that.” 

Once she’s gotten into his car, she takes a deep breath and sags into the seat. He doesn’t mind; she’s been through a lot. If she can take a few minutes to relax, that’ll be the best he can do for her. He's gone a full kilometre down Fulham Road before he thinks to ask: “Ought I to call anyone for you?” 

Helen blinks, coming out of her stupor. “Oh. No. I’m just going round to my friend Anna’s. She’s at work now, but she should be back by five. You needn’t worry. I’ll be quite all right.” 

That's good to know, but James thinks faintly that you aren’t supposed to leave people unattended when they’ve just come out of hospital. Perhaps it’s just worry from looking after Mother. He isn’t foolish enough to bring up the subject of parents, but bloody pragmatism forces him to suggest, just the once: "Well, there's always --" 

"I would rather live under a bridge," Helen tells him frostily, "then come within ten yards of Gerry. All I'll have to fend with would be the second coming of Jack the Ripper and a dog or two come to take a piss. Both charming bedfellows by comparison."

"How about someone from work, then?" James offers. When she is silent, he prods, "Where do you work, anyway?" 

Her cheeks flare red but her voice is level when she says: "During the day, I deliver sandwiches and at night I wait tables at a restaurant in Chelsea." 

"Excellent!" says James. "Some of my favorite people are waitresses." Off her expression, he adds: "No, really, they are. There's this lady, Marge at my favorite diner — it's Fatboys, F-A-T-B-O-Y-S, you should really go sometime — and she makes these milkshakes that are divine. I'm not joking. They're so thick, I could plunge into one and probably float...or die very, very happy." 

Helen scoffs, insulted either by the comparison or any perceived aspersions as to the quality of her own milkshakes. "I'm not a waitress by profession! I was in PR." She settles back into her seat and sniffs. "And rather brilliant at it, too.”

”I’ll bet you are.” James makes a turn and a decision at the same time. He hasn't known Helen long, but something between them feels right. “Look, I’ve just had a mad idea. How about I stay with you until Anna comes home? I might talk your ear off, but that’s about it.” 

To his surprise, Helen smiles instead of taking offense. “I’d hate to impose—“ 

”Not at all,” says James, and surprises himself by meaning it. They pull into the street Helen indicates and he scrambles round—he rather approves of this Anna, at least based on her taste in real estate— to get the car door for her. 

"I've got it—" She says, and opens it herself.


End file.
